Ronald The Seagull From Fleetwood.

A lovely old lady were Florrie,
she 'ad been for many a year.
An' there's nowt she liked better on Sundays,
than a walk along Blackpools North Pier.

She'd get there right early in t'mornin',
t' be the first one so t' speak.
Like she said. "When yer get t' be ninety,
yer jus' might not make it next week."

For years she'd been makin' the effort,
with some butties an' a flask of 'ot tea.
An' she'd sit all day long on the jetty,
jus' gazin' an' watchin' the sea.

Then 'er eyes'd light up when she saw 'im,
skimmin' in over the foam.
It were Ronald a seagull from Fleetwood,
who'd just followed the herring boats 'ome.

She'd stand up an' wave at the seagull,
'e'd squawk an' 'e'd shriek in delight.
Then 'e'd land on the bench near 'er 'andbag,
an' she'd give 'im a butty t' bite.

The rest of the day she'd spend "cooing",
an' feedin' 'im bits o' chopped 'am.
Till four 'o' clock chimed in the distance,
then she'd kiss 'im an catch the last tram.

Sometimes 'e'd bring 'er an 'erring,
regurgitatin' it right up in 'er lap.
An' she'd 'ave it for breakfast next mornin',
well, it saved payin' t'prices in t'shops.

Everyone knew about Ronald,
-- an' Florrie, -- an' 'ow they got on.
"It's amazin'," they'd say, "jus' t' see 'em.
An old lady, an' a seagull like Ron.

Then 'er old legs packed in workin',
an' she tried t' put on a brave face.
"They've not done too bad." Florrie told 'em.
"They've took me all over the place."

But the pier 'ead weren't same without Florrie,
an' Ronald were lost were the lad.
So they 'ad a collection in Blackpool,
an' bought a wheelchair for the lass.

Now the chair, it were one o' them posh 'n's,
all batteries an' go faster stripes.
An' Florrie were soon on the 'Igh Street,
speedin' with all of 'er might.

Folks jumped in doorways t' miss 'er,
as Florrie bunged chair in top gear.
Then she carried on pickin' more speed up,
while makin' 'er way t' the pier.

Florrie were nearin' 'er goal now,
an' slowed the chair ever so slight.
To manouver it under the turnstyle,
then shot off again quick as light.

Then she stopped at the end, jus' like always,
surprised at the folk 'angin' round.
Then, somebody said in a whisper.
"D' yer think Ronald'll know she's around?"

Well, everyone waited in silence,
nobody darin' t' speak.
Then 'e appeared in the distance,
y' could tell it were 'im by 'is shriek.

"It's Ronald! - It's Ronald!" They shouted,
as 'e flew ever closer t' pier.
An Florrie she 'eld both 'er arms out,
t' let Ronald see she were 'ere.

Yer could tell Ron were really excited,
cos 'e dropped lots of stuff as they do.
An' it landed on shoulders an' bonnets,
an' everyone sort of went. "Oooh!"

Then Ronald 'e swooped a bit closer,
still shriekin' an flappin' 'is wings.
Then 'e landed on th'arm of 'er wheelchair,
but 'is foot caught a knob on the thing.

Now the chair it shot off like greased lightenin',
an' crashed through the rails with a shudder.
While Florrie were shoutin' at Ronald.
"Get yer foot off the knob yer daft bugger!"

Now Florrie an' Ron soon went under,
as the chair dragged 'em under the waves.
An' all they could find were a butty,
t' mark Florrie's watery grave.

It's said she still visits the pier 'ead,
but yer can tell she don't want t' be there.
Cos she's still cussin' an' shoutin' at Ronald.
"Get yer foot off that knob on me chair!"

© S. Brown

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